When conducting is Trying...

I have been working with Miss M for almost two years now; she is a young adult who had a terrible fall while overseas a few years ago, and she has been left with a rather nasty brain injury.  Miss M is one of the most personally and professionally challenging people I have had the privilege to conduct, and even in a month where we have had some ridiculously incredible functional breakthroughs I find myself unsure of where I am with her and having internal conflict after virtually every session.

Miss M has an incredible full-time carer, L, who Miss M and I are extremely lucky with.  L is fantastic with Miss M - she has a very close and loving relationship with her that I am able to work through, yet is able to be objective, firm, and work with 'tough love' where Miss M's parents can't.  L problem-solves with me and and reinforces the work done in CE sessions -- and when things don't go well, we help pull each other through the muck.

There is no getting around it; acquired brain injury is complicated -- especially when physical disability is accompanied by impairment to behaviour, personality, memory and other cognitive functions.  When I first started working with Miss M, I saw so much potential for regaining functional mobility but was not sure if I was going to be able to work around her behavioural and cognitive impairment.  I was not sure to what extent the behaviour was a result of the brain injury or was something that she had learned to use manipulate and control her circumstances and the people around her since the brain injury.  The behaviour drastically impacted the presentation of the disability, so much that the physical impairment and the physical disability were incredibly mismatched.  She yodelled and shouted jibberish as her main source of communication; otherwise she just parroted what was said.  She cried and shrieked with 'pain' when anyone even mentioned touching or moving her hands, feet, or legs, so no therapy or splinting happened, and as a result her hands and feet are amazingly contracted and deformed.  She had a very violent and aggressive streak that had required no provocation.  She was not interested in actively participating in CE or therapy; not motivated, and refused to take part.

And yet she knew every word to every song, including recent pop music from after her brain injury, and we could sing together.  Once I got over my own hang ups about what is appropriate when working with adults I found that through children's song and play I could interact with her and sometimes get her to do things with me; I frantically went through my notes from my student years in nursery and school groups looking for appropriate songs, added in 'camp songs' and pop songs and other movement games and suddenly there was a relationship.  And with that relationship came my expectations around behaviour - not just with Miss M, but with her amazing family and wonderful carer as well - and with expectations and goals around behaviour came change - both good and bad -- think of a full strength adult hitting the 'terrible twos'.

We are working teach Miss M that being violent and aggressive is not acceptable -- she is strong, has good motor control, and is unpredictable and dangerous.  At first this behaviour seemed random - no provocation required.  A previous therapist had in fact capitalized on it early on -- rough play and play fighting was the only activity she would take part in and that was how he helped her find her body and movement after the accident.  Now, by holding her down, restricting her movement, repeatedly telling her that she was hurting me (and yes I have had my share of bruises and scratches and bites and hair pulling and pinching courtesy of Miss M) I've started to see that she can stop being agressive if there is consistency around this.  But more, I saw that she could learn - when I intercepted her aggression she would burst into apology and tears.  I also confirmed that she could be manipulative - while she was apologetic and teary I would drop my guard and she would attack again.  I also started to see that the violent behaviour was not random - frustration, confusion, pain, being frightened, being over something, needing some physical space were all triggers.  Miss M has a very short fuse; and when she loses control she can't yet reel it in.

Now we are working to teach her that saying sorry and crying isn't enough, she has to choose not to repeat the behaviour -- and we are making progress.  However, in some ways these improvements have made the behaviour harder to manage.  We have seen intention and purpose in her rage -- this is incredibly hard to work with because we know that it is not just random brain injury lability, but directed violent anger -- very different.  There are good days, days when we work well and have no fighting.  I know that once Miss M loses her temper she is out of control, but because I feel that Miss M understands what she is doing and that she knows she is not behaving nicely, I feel my own anger rise when dealing with hers.  It is very hard to physically restrain somebody who is attacking you when you are also managing your own anger and trying to be professional and appropriate.  If she is on the floor or in her wheelchair I can move away; if we are in the pool or balanced on the edge of a plinth, my duty of care doesn't allow me to step away and I have to restrain her to protect myself while keeping her safe and managing my own temper.  And I'll be honest -- I sit in the car and cry after these days.

When I say we have seen ridiculously incredible functional breakthroughs I am not exaggerating; in the last few months we have seen exponential improvements in spontaneous communication and vocabulary; we see memory and refection where previously there was none; we see the beginning of an ability to understand that there was an accident, that there has been a brain injury, that we are trying to help her get better.  Miss M has gone from from swimming only with floaties and someone right beside her to independent swimming on her front and back.  She has learned to roll onto her stomach (or more precisely to tolerate being there) and from rolling onto her stomach in a matter of a week has learned to get up onto her knees and to crawl, and from there to pull herself up into high kneeling and onto a plinth or the lounge.  The other day she was in high kneeling and tried to put her foot on the floor as if to stand (if only her feet and ankles weren't so terribly contracted!!!).  Her body is remembering what she used to be able to do and latent abilities are presenting gob-smackingly rapidly and spontaneously -- it is like watching normal deelopment in fast foward.  And when these things happen we celebrate  - Miss M's parents, L, and I all shocked and amazed, ecstatic to the point of tears, and Miss M caught up in the excitement of the moment.

And then I show up the next day, expecting to reinforce and repeat what we have achieved and Miss M will be in a mood, refusing to participate, crying, being aggressive.  When this was what I arrived expecting it was hard, but I was prepared, and it was what was expected.  But now I don't know what to expect, and I excitedly arrive, still on yesterday's high; we review videos so Miss M remembers and we get excited watching them. Then we try to do something and I get behaviour and refusal to try.  And I am heartbroken and disappointed even though I know that this is the nature of this brain injury and that this is a part of the process for Miss M.  And even though I know that any confusion, disappointment, frustration I feel is minute in comparison to the complex emotions that Miss M feels and has no real way of expressing.  My disappointment and frustration sometimes clouds my thinking, it feels personal -- we have a relationship that has allowed her to develop and exceed everyone's expectations; I'm putting everything I have into these sessions, and she can't be bothered to try.  And only hours later while debriefing with L, am I able to appreciate and understand and deconstruct what is happening, and to remember how far we have come, and to find energy to keep trying.

You've got to try...

Or perhaps this is more inspiring...  Try, just a little bit harder

Pounding the Pavement and other Life Lessons

Yesterday I went for a run -- I run, but I don't love it; there are other things I'm much better at and would prefer to spend a sunny afternoon doing, but yesterday was different.  As I ran, I enjoyed the feeling of my legs moving beneath me as they moved me around Narrabeen Lake and appreciated being able to run.

I remembered back to the first fun run I ever did, a 5km run fundraising for the Achilles Running  Club, a Toronto based running club supporting runners with disabilities.  Though only 5km, this run was a real struggle for me, and at some point during that run -- perhaps when a runner with a prosthetic leg or a blind person being led by a running guide or somebody pushing a wheelchair ran past me as I puffed and panted along -- I decided to get better at running.  I remembered back to my half marathon - I still remember the 'of the moment' contempt I had for the person wearing a shirt that said "the pain is temporary, the glory is forever".  I remembered to look around at the beautiful place where I was running, to notice the ducks and geese and kayakers on the lake, to run and smell the roses so to speak because yesterday's run wasn't about my running or my fitness, but about KH getting out and about in his scooter, something he hadn't done in years.

KH had done half of his hard work already - it is a very difficult for him to transfer onto his scooter and then back into his chair that he uses at home hence it being years since he had been able to go scooting, but we had agreed that an outing would be awesome for our last session.  I have to tell you I've never seen a scooter quite like this - probably 20 years old with a little light switch to flick for forward or reverse, big crazy handles for steering like an old Harley Davidson.  When I took the cover off of it I actually doubted that it would go at all.  KH had asked (via his AAC) me how my running was, but I was more worried that I wouldn't be strong enough to push it if it choked en route.

Off we went -- and yes I had to jog, run, and sometimes even sprint to keep up with him, especially on the wide flat path around the lake, and even on the bush trails that were barely wide enough for the scooter.  Kids stared at us, not the usual curiosity filled way that kids often stare at someone with a disability, but in the 'that's so cool' way adults look at a cherry red convertible mustang  -- KH's wheels were by far the biggest and coolest anywhere around.



As I said, I enjoyed my run, spurred on by KH's sounds of glee when I couldn't keep up or started getting puffed, wanting to keep up with him to witness his enjoyment of the day, to be close enough that if he wanted to say something I could get his communication aid out for him.  I was grateful that I had worked on my running enough over the years since my first fun run that on KH's day out he didn't have to be held back by my limited running ability - and also grateful that KH wanted to stop and look at things so I had a few seconds here and there to catch my breath.

As I ran, I remembered SE learning to drive his very fast chair with his very limited right hand so that he could learn to play wheel chair tennis; he needed to hold the racket with his left hand which was normally his driving hand.  SE -- the mischievous show pony that he is -- ran me hard that day too, in a little park where the session could be watched by my colleagues, clients, and acquaintances.

As I ran, my mind drifted to other random fun moments I've had with people in wheelchairs.  Not CE moments, but just random slices of life moments.  I thought about getting trackside at the Indy 500 with MG; I though about SP after a few drinks taking her wheelchair down a small set of stairs where a portable ramp had been a few hours earlier; I though about the fun CW and I had while she was learning to cross busy roads in her new foot driven wheelchair; I thought about KW bringing a batch of his very special brownies in on his birthday to enjoy with the rest of  his MS group (yes I'm serious - all 5 of them were off chops and giggling through the whole session); I thought about getting around the wild markets of Hong Kong with M&LD; I thought about KD getting her wheelchair stuck in a pile of woodchips while geocaching in a cemetery; I thought about training FG for her Antartica adventure that included climbing down a ladder into a zodiac to get to the icebergs; I thought about YG coming out to cheer my dragonboat team on wearing her team shirt and hat; I thought about SP in the back of an ambulance on the way to hospital with breathing difficulties suddenly coming good when she realized how sexy the doctor treating her was.  As I ran I remembered my grandmother in her wheelchair, friends with several teenagers in her neighbourhood.  The kids came to shovel her driveway or help with the garden knowing that she loved rock concerts could take a carer with her - Ricky Martin, the Spice Girls, Savage Garden were amongst her favourites.  This is the same grandmother who concluded that people in wheelchairs don't get hugged as much as other people so decided to change that, throwing her arms up and insisting that everyone (the mailman, the bus driver, everyone) hugged her.

As I ran, spurred on by KH's vocalizations, laughing as KH waved at admiring kids we passed by, I thought about when I first met KH (detailed in my previous blog posting); that first day I got caught up in his disability and circumstances but yesterday I was hanging out, having fun, celebrating being alive with an amazing person.  I'm forever grateful for the amazing people I encounter in work and in life, and for the free attitude adjustments they offer.    And, I'm grateful for clients who become friends, who let me into their lives, and who share their moments of adventure and misadventure with me.

Conducting when it's Confronting

I try not to roll my eyes when talking to some well meaning person about 'what I do for a living' and 'whom I do it with', when with their hand on their heart and their eyes welling up with tears, they tell me what an angel I am, express marvel at my patience, or assert that they themselves could never do it though they know it must be incredibly rewarding.  It angers, frustrates, and outright amazes me that when people see the people whom I work with, they see my humanity and not my client's, as if my client's humanity is shrouded by their disability.  But I try not to roll my eyes.  I try to respond in a way that is not pedantic or condescending because for whatever reason it is human nature for people to be frightened by those who are different, to prefer not to deal with the reality of their own mortality, to be generally uncomfortable in their own skins, and to feel confronted by the very physical world of disability.  I understand that for the most part people mean well but feel confronted.  And yes, disability can be very confrontational - even for people with disabilities, caring for people with disabilities, or working with people with disabilities.

Today I sat in my car sobbing after my initial consultation with KH because his story and his circumstances were confronting; because I already cared and wanted to help him but didn't know if I could, or where I would start.  I'm telling you this because though I love what I do, sometimes it is hard and sometimes it is confronting because life and disability and disability services can be unfair, awful, and heart breaking.  I've never really been good at the whole 'professional objectivity keep people at arms length thing' - and I accept that sometimes that means having very human, emotional gut responses to people that I meet, or things that happen in the lives of people I work with and genuinely care about.

On days like this I miss working with my very good friend and conductive mentor AB because we talked about this stuff; she validated my feelings of confrontation and was not afraid to show me hers - such a precious rarity in a senior professional and so important to my professional development.  On days like these I think about how AB mentored me - no actually, how she conducted me - from these moments of professional despair back into our classroom refocussed and ready to confront what had confronted me.

I often try to imagine what AB would tell me in moments like those after I met KH today.  AB would say "we have to try" no matter how impossible something seemed. If something we tried didn't work she would say "we have to keep trying until we find a way".  Today when I told KH that I didn't know how far we would get but that I wanted to try, he typed out that he was expecting me to tell him that there was nothing that I could do, like everybody else told him and that he was happy to try.

If I told AB I wasn't sure if I could help someone, she would say "of course you don't know, you have't tried.  But you are a conductor", she would say with pride, "we try, this is what we do".  She is so right - though there may be similarities from one person to another, each person, each body, each disability is different.  We improvise, we think on the fly, we make it up as we go along, and over time and with experience start to refine this 'trying'.

If I told AB I didn't know where to start, she would ask me about what KH could do, and would remind me to start there.  Though I'm still not sure exactly how or where I will start with KH, I am amazed that in his 50 plus years of living with his brain injury he has found ways to manage as much as he has, and trust that he will show me where to start.  AB would say "conductors don't have every answer, but that's ok if we keep looking -- this is what we have to teach the participants".  Thinking about KH again, I remind myself that sometimes this is also what they teach us.

Today after I met KH, I sat in the car and sobbed -- it was confrontational and I was upset and I wanted to help but was scared.  I think that we need to talk to each other about these feelings -- I believe that they are a very real part of being a conductor.  I hope to be able to write something motivational and exciting about what conductive education has helped KH achieve sometime soon.  But today I'm writing to tell you that though meeting KH was confrontational, upsetting, and caused me to doubt what I had to offer through conductive education, after my imaginary debrief with AB this afternoon I am ready, willing, and excited about the opportunity to try.